


flicker

by lanfan



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Experimental Style, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 04:24:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2637971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanfan/pseuds/lanfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>He can admit without injury to his pride that his first impressions never work, as if some cosmic force keeps Ja’far completely immune to his charms even in other lifetimes.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	flicker

**Author's Note:**

> the reincarnation au no one wanted; i'm so sorry.

The first time, Sinbad is holding a sword to his neck. The man is still under him, head covered in thin cloth to his neck, dagger pressed against Sinbad’s side. 

“Seems we’re at an impasse, Persian filth,” he says quietly and Sinbad laughs, adjusting his sword to press lightly on the spy’s jugular. Light filters in from the damp roof above them, painting sunspots across Sinbad’s shoulders.

“Not quite. Kill me, and there are thousands of soldiers waiting for my command.” 

Sinbad watches the man swallow, the bob of his Adam’s apple, and the grin he receives in return is vicious. 

“And what of my men?”

The resonating battle cry behind him is enough to spur Sinbad into action, slamming his blade into the tender skin of the warrior’s jaw, watching first, with relish, the bloody rush of victory drop to the floor and then the sliced fabric from his face. His face pales. 

“ _Ja’far?_ ”

His answer is deafening silence, punctuated by the fierce screams of his soldiers and the dense weight of the body in his arms. 

\--

Most of the time, Sinbad remembers first. He’ll open a door or set down a coffee mug and then there he’ll appear, usually holding papers, always with an annoyed expression, whether he (sometimes, she) knows it or not. Sinbad will try to initiate contact immediately, offer a cup of coffee or a smile, ever pleasant and he realizes, usually unwelcome. He can admit without injury to his pride that his first impressions never work, as if some cosmic force keeps Ja’far completely immune to his charms even in other lifetimes. 

\--

"Ja'far?"

"Yeah?" 

"It's funny; you've had that name more than any other." 

Ja'far rolls his eyes and takes a long drag of his rolled up cigar. Sinbad shifts so their thighs are touching, the heat coming through the thick material of their trousers. He pretends to not notice Ja’far shiver and move away, wrapping his arms around himself. 

"Who else have you said that to?”

"Don’t be so pessimistic," Sinbad smiles and Ja'far flinches, jaw clenched as every bone in his body tingles then sags against the weight of this new skin. Sinbad misses the last body's freckles. 

"Sinbad," he says quietly, testing the weight of the sturdy word on his tongue. He rubs the butt of his cigar onto the pavement. "You should've brought me back sooner."

"It’s different each time!" 

"Keep notes," Ja'far says with no pity and Sinbad laughs because Ja'far may look different each time but his core is wholly sleek and constant, like the edge of a blade or the lips of a lover.

\--

He quickly learns that Ja’far never regains his memory on sight, like Sinbad does. It takes dreams or triggers; certain words and phrases that Sinbad had whispered into his skin eons ago, when they were nestled in the quiet villages of the Alps or in the height of revolutionary America, together. The first few times: the deserts of Saudi Arabia, the mountains of Kilimanjaro, the streets of Paris, Sinbad doesn't hesitate. Now, he takes his time. It is worth it, learning every inch of Ja’far over again like a favorite record, dusted with age, that he turns over in his calloused hands, afraid any day the needle will scratch and the song will be over.

\--

“Get out of my house.” She’s clutching the bathrobe against her wet body, shaking. Sinbad, hands in the air, moves towards her like a seasoned hunter.

“Ja’far, please. I just want to talk.” This lifetime, it’s taken longer. He – or this time, she – is nearing forty and finally, _finally_ , saw Ja’far entering the apartment across the hall from her, a new move-in. The feeling of past hits her like a freight train, heavy and hot and Ja’far’s hair is almost powder-white but this time long, billowing down to the small of her back. Sinbad likes it, naturally. She feels desperation claw at the back of her throat

“ _That’s not my name_.”

“Please—“

“I’m calling the cops!”  
\--

Sometimes, they’re not the same age. Once, Sinbad is settling down when a teenager knocks to babysit his new child. He lets her in and they fuck over the kitchen table after she puts the kid to sleep and he comments on her freckles, quick and sloppy, Sinbad lifting her by the thighs, all spit and teeth. Another, Sinbad watches Ja’far die of old age, a week after she’d gotten her learner’s permit. Sometimes, he can’t hold himself back long enough to realize he should let Ja’far go, only for that lifetime. Sometimes, it’s better for him not to know. 

\--

“Have I ever not remembered you?”

“Sometimes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I can’t always find you; sometimes our lives never cross.”

“I pledged to follow you to the end.”

“I know.”

“How long do you think this keeps going?”

“I’m hoping forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> and yes, the trigger in the second scene is something Sinbad has said to Ja'far before, in the latest chapter of Sinbad No Bokuen.


End file.
